The cat's meow
by Whispurrs
Summary: 20's Au, when Sarah Williams takes a leap of faith with a handsome stranger to make a point, she never thought the roaring twenties would roar so very loudly; and time itself is put in question.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1 – let the games begin.**

Her father was taut and anxious at something fleeting in the wind, warning that some vague troubles would interrupt how music coursed through their veins and joy was an easy commodity.

It was impossible to believe.

Not, however, she grimaced, when she took a certain woman into account, a certain woman who always tight lipped talked about the endless vices of their generation, always as sombre as the last age.

If it was vice and sin, it was happy vice and sin, and the order of things was that she would creep out of the house to dance, and her father wouldn't stop her, and Karen couldn't glare or preach, or hand her brother over to look after.

She grimaced at remembering how loud and irritating he had the tendency to be, but, at the age of five he was a fun little rascal to be around, just as at twenty Karen began to take fault at her state of unmarriage.

Thankfully, tonight was not a night where she'd have to look after him, it was a dance night, to move with the Charleston and rags like nobody was watching.

Studying the dress she threw on, and her cap; both red with black and gold lining, she decided it was safe to venture out.

For an ethereal girl like her, the pomp and bluster hat came about with the roaring age was the best thing; loud and brilliant enough to knock her from her od imagination, that crawled around 'labyrinths' and hung around 'possessed' mirrors even after childhood; and her favourite club was like something from a fairytale, big and bright, with bits and pieces left over from its ballroom times like the dazzling chandelier that bathed everyone in light.

She also loved how it bathed _everyone_, how people of all races mingled as would be a dead taboo in any shop or street; the music liberating them in some many ways more than just their bodies dancing.

Century heaven was her real heaven.

She walked in, excitement coursing through her, looking for someone to chat to in the middle of the que.

She focused on a plump woman, with a chopped blonde bob and a smile too wide to be sincere, yet shining in its sincerity; with a silver and gold dress and pearls for the occasion.

''Hi, I'm Sarah; is it ok if I talk to you while we wait – the queues are always demonic for this place.''

''Sure thing, Sarah,'' she laughed, forgetting how awkward she must have sounded while straining out the invite to a conversation, ''hullo then, I guess. I'm Helen. ''

''Wait, you're from England?'' Sarah asked, only just picking up on the accent.

''Uh huh; the parties there aren't nearly as grand; that's why we moved over. No, really it's because over there the chummy schoolboys look down on new money, like it isn't clean – but over here, as long as you do your job well and get good money for it, nobody taunts at where you came from. Plus, high schools are far less toffee nosed than grammar can be.''

''Where did you live?'' Sarah asked, wondering how parties in London could ever be small, and if she really was that naive when Karen was snooping her nose into other people's business regularly.

''Oh, you Americans, if it isn't London you wouldn't know, Lincolnshire, originally – now give me a quick nod if you know where the hell it is – thought so. I don't miss it usually, apart from when my stomach kills for fish and chips; so maybe I am too common for my dad's money. Still, I like this place perfectly – great club, great big houses, and still as many parks as mice could cause a ruckus in.''

She wondered if bizarre similes were a British thing, even if she somehow understood her.

''It's weird, isn't it, I love both; the parties and the parks, though they have sweet fanny Adams alike – I guess nature is always good for thinking, and partying makes everyone feel natural; I don't think anyone could have a care in the world dancing away here.''

''That's a bit romantic, but you're probably right, though, I think we might just be able to get in now. Well, however romantically you think of these thinks, stay the right side of the drinks, ok?''

Ah, the thing that was the thing to rant at her about from Karen, even though she too sips, not gulps, as she always had an uncanny sense her liver was being pickled, and she always got out before there were any fights, which, were more mercifully rare than in big city speakeasy's.

She stepped in, and it lived up to its name – a live band was there as usual, breaking out jazz as smooth as butter; and she felt the sense of peace that came from such a serenading chaos.

At the far end of the room, looking far too sour to actually be there; nursing a white wine as the picture of nonchalance.

He'd be kicked out if it weren't for his looks, she thinks, seeing that killjoy look in the downturned corners of his mouth.

Helen gave her a little wave, ushering her over to her group of friends.

''You see that Bluenose over there,'' she turned to look at the man, voice dry, ''don't take any wooden nickels, alright – he's been lounging over here every night he can get in, and every night he bites off anyone who takes one step near him. He may be handsome, alright, but he's balled right up to the nines.''

How the hell did someone from Lincolnshire get so comfy with the slang, she wondered.

And why did she have to acknowledge how handsome the bastard was.

''Hey, come on, Sarah, get your head back from the fairies. He may be a cad, but I can see two guys who are the bee's knees right now. '' The bees knees she showed her , were one scruffy brunette haired boy who apparently found his shoes fascinating, but had a sweet smile if he bothered to use it – that was Robert, Helen's boyfriend; and a lean, rather gorgeous blond guy who, sadly, had intensely confused looking features.

They were playing a Bessie Smith, I'm wild about that thing, a touch of class, even if there was nothing she was particularly wild about the lazy conversation, as Helen made some excuse and walked over to a group of girls with the boys.

She couldn't help notice that the man now had his legs, and by extension, heeled boots sprawled over the table, and wasn't being told off for it, no doubt because of the cost of his sharp suit.

He looked like he was made of money, especially from the way whatever it was around his eyes looked far more like crushed diamonds than make up, and a small part of her hoped that he wasn't of Nazimova's type.

Not that it wasn't fine, in her mind at least, but it wouldn't be fine for someone so attractive to her.

He was a stranger in a club, and attractive or not, exactly the sort of thing that would prove Karen right.

He was certainly arresting, uneven eyes glinting with the promise of danger, like the big and very bad indeed wolf red riding hood had to face; cheekbone sharp enough to cut and kill, and a sand blonde mane of hair.

She still could have killed him for thinking he owned the place.

''Sarah, stop looking at the Sheik and get on with having a good time.'' Helen joked, at the same time her look deadly serious.

''Oh please, I know a Sheik when I see one, and that is not it. He's a drugstore cowboy, that's all. Just…not in a drugstore at the moment.''

''If you really thought that, you'd stop staring at him; you're carrying a torch for him, and it's gonna burn your hands.''

Tired of the debate, she snatched the champagne from her new friend's hand, mouthed watch this, and walked over to him, spilling it on the leg draped over the table, winking as she did so.

''That was not a good idea. You'll have to pay for the stain.'' He was being obtuse, but that was always easy when he had been raptured in annoyance, and a pretty young woman was in front of him.

''It got your feet off, didn't it?'' she smiled slyly, ''and looking at you, I think that a cleaning bill would be the least of your worries. Heck, you probably have a maid or someone. So, sorry I don't think I will be paying.''

He did have a maid once, before she had to be replaced with a goblin because of the funny sickness that happened to happen on her because of them.

Besides, human attire was nothing compared with the stashes of luxuriant suits and capes he had in his home.

''How would you know how rich I am; perhaps I am a beggar in a rich man's clothing, perhaps I am rich beyond all comprehension,'' cross that one out, his supplies of gold were healthy enough, but not entirely regal, ''and I am perfectly entitled to sit however I choose; I know the owner, S. J Hoggle, and he wouldn't care if I took a dump in his precious little heaven.''

Great she thought, cursing her attractions, he was vulgar too, however nice his accent was.

''Well, you're in a jazz bar and not dancing, and that's a crime he ought to care about.''

He snickered, ''then you know not the definition of a crime. Now, trot along to your little friends, unless, of course…'' oh, he really was setting himself up, wasn't he…

''Unless you'd like a deal.''

''I guess I'd have to know someone's name before making a deal, and what kind of deal exactly,'' her voice was full of curiosity she hadn't even tried to bury, ''Sarah, Sarah Williams.''

''Jareth,'' he extended a long hand, ''and not telling; so will you leap before you look, or limp before you linger?''

British people and confusing wordplay, what was it with them?

She shook his hand and stared into his eyes, trying to muster up coolness to match his own.

''I'm guessing I'll just have to jump.''

**Author's notes: All of the slang can be translated using: ** . and the Nazimova refers to the 20's silent actress, a fmaous out lesbian, who helped gay acceptance by the modern crowd, before things went worse during the great depression.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 - Friend and foe.**

Poor fool, how could she ever know what she was jumping into – she had eyes that looked suspicious just for show; the type of girl who would pretend that she could stand order, but went searching for chaos without even knowing it.

He was lounging in that bar far more often than not nowadays, he groaned, with the amount he could control dwindling, everyone too concerned with the swing of things in joy than telling silly old stories that their mothers swore to.

He would enjoy her failing immensely.

''Well, then, the deal has been struck.'' He bit onto his bottom lip in a devilish smile, ''and, I trust, your life suitably changed.''

Her eyes had seconds to register the peeling away of lights and music; the table and chair he lounged on in that infuriating 'above all' way, the walls first into bricks, then into empty space, white as the rooms people had their lives stripped from in confinement.

Then, from nowhere at all; the sky was blackened purple, the trees were half alive, scorched enough to look dead, with stray petals blooming to wilt; and the only landmark was a wall, huge, like the one she'd learnt had come from China, and a shrivelled up dwarf tending to his pests.

''Well,'' he smiled, it's obvious that you forgot to think about consequences, didn't you? Or did you think that you'd end up with a tame little thing in your quaint little life?''

She lunged at him them, after moments of silence with her mouth agape, going for his neck even if she knew it was a futile effort, brimming with loathing, in a place where any violence would eschew the consequences he talked of, if no one was there to chide her.

''Physical violence - futile and unpredictable; generally speaking you simply say that you will defeat me with all the fight of a dying crow in your words. You haven't spoken at all. Blinded by my looks, are you; taunting me to gauge my reality, each reaction that I give you saying no, I am not your most desired fiction? Well, I think I may have to change the terms of our agreement, then.'' He was so full of himself in that moment, with that smile; she felt he could have drowned in his ego.

''A girl with seeing eyes could only be blinded by how ossified you'd have to be to believe it! You never told me the terms anyway, you old pill.''

He groaned, the slang of the era he'd dropped into was quite annoying, and blatantly obvious in its meanings.

Besides, as delicious as taunting her was, he knew her reaction was a load of shit; people hung around him like flies to meet every damn party he sulked at, until he told them to buzz of and shit on someone else's food.

Every drawled 'fuck off' sent them right on their way, thank you very much, a prudish despite thinking itself revolutionary.

He wondered why he hadn't skulked around in the 60's, now there was a time when you were nearly guaranteed sex after an hour.

''The whole point of our agreement was that you went in blindly, or you wouldn't have given the pleasure of riling you up so badly.''

''Well, I deserve them now.'' She sulked, her pout quite unbecoming.

''The wall you see there is only the start of your plight; my labyrinth, which will go on for time immemorial if it doesn't like you, is an evolving thing; never the same one day as it is the next. You shall arrive at my castle to boast about besting me, within thirteen hours, or I win. It won't be pretty. How, I won't tell you. I'm being petulant – it rather suits me, doesn't it?''

It sounded like a fairy tale, albeit the sort of one designed more for scaring children into morals, rather than twee storybooks.

She was the heroine, even if she wasn't pale as snow or about to take what he was talking like the gospel; he had been completely insufferable, whether he'd bugged her drink – a prohibition friendly cranberry juice, no jokes – or telling whatever version of the truth he'd like to, she was going to take him drowning in more salt than a crawfish in New Orleans.

''Fine then, I'll take your applesauce; but any man who does anything like this is bound to be the big old villain, and I've always seen them get defeated. I'll make that way into your castle even if I have to drag myself there. It'll be a piece of cake.'' She slapped her hands together and wiped them, nose right up in the air.

He was starting to wonder how many of his opponents had ever tasted cake that was laced with arsenic.

''If it's that easy for you, Sarah, I won't mock you with the hours I give you, so obviously talented, well, she could do it in four hours, couldn't she? Maybe even half a trifle of an hour.'' she hated it when anyone made fun of her, for the times she walked around like pixies were at her brains, for the amount of fervour she put in new stories and myths, but when he taunted her, her blood ran cold.

Fine, she'd do it in two hours.

She almost instantly thought better of that.

''Fine, I'll stick to your hours as flattery, not that your ego needs fluffing up some more. I'll win your little game, and you'll put me right back where I came from, too.''

His smile was all the 'no, you won't, silly girl' he'd ever be able to say, and she felt like a dog being petted by the competition's owner, after running backwards in a dog show.

''Well, you've done your gloating; you can scram if you like!''

He did like, though he was dramatic about that, vanishing from thin air with his last words, 'quaint', ringing in the air, clinging to the way the scarce wind blew.

She supposed she ought to have been discombobulated earlier, what with all the madness going around her, but she was far too busy being angry at Jareth, even if he was the product of whatever he put in the drink she couldn't remember having.

Looking around her, she realized how surreal a dreamscape her mind had picked if so, and she tried searching for the matching stories that would fit what had happened, everyone just beyond her grasp; the thinly stocked library never holding enough information, in words that weren't exclusive to English professors, Karen always complaining she should turn her mind to things that weren't so childish, a better fit for her age.

She wasn't in the underworld, she couldn't see any dead people, and she hadn't had to eat a pomegranate and marry him and his hooey, she wasn't in heaven, otherwise he wouldn't have appeared all condescending, though she doubted he'd had left at all if it was hell; the only place she thought of was someplace Celtic, maybe, but even then, how could she have gone from one country to another without a boat?

Well, it was beautiful, in a stark way, although the obvious and glittering grandeur of the labyrinth's she'd dreamed up in childhood was missing; and heck, she might just have loved it, if she wasn't forced into it.

She had, however, thirteen hours, not for fun, not for exploration or wide eyed wonder, but to show him she was nothing to be laughed at.

She allowed herself a while to pace around, all brooding, then tried thinking of all the many ways she could show him and his fancy yard design up.

She could storm in, couldn't she, with a swarm of whatever the pests were, she could get something magic, since a place like that would need some sort of magic, and cast a spell onto him that turned him into a nasty old goblin that he was.

She could, if worst came to very worst, even seek out some wide eyed boy to think he loved her, and fight for her honour, but that was quite the last resort.

About twenty minutes had gone before she decided she may as well walk some of the way, and humour him.

She walked up to the entrance, and tapped onto the shrewd looking little creature's back, waiting for him to acknowledge her impatiently.

''Whatever it is, I can't help.'' He huffed, with his gravelly voice.

''Well, you can give ma few facts. First off; who are you, exactly? Second, do you know where the castle is, and how I can storm to sort him out, and thirdly… well, thirdly, I want you to tell me why someone like that would go to little clubs when he can sulk his hide in a luxury labyrinth.''

Ugh, Hoggle groaned, first he had to hypnotise humans so Jareth could mope up underground instead of below it, having just the amount of fun he'd have at a dentist's, and then the most upfront girl he'd had barged right up to him, without even a hello.

Humph.

He never had his opponents give in easily, that go boring, and no way could he deal with boring, nuh uh.

''Can't answer. Now leave me do my gardening.''

''Oh, of course you can, its very easy; and, well, if you don't, the I'm just going to have to cast a truth enchantment, so you'll have to tell me, won't you.'' She folded her arms smugly; satisfied she'd won a very short fight.

He made a gravelly splutter, that made it sound like high and mighty wasn't the only person there who was making a habit of mocking her.

''You don't have no magic, I can smell it on you, you're pure muggle. Besides it wouldn't work here anyways, even if you weren't, there's been enchantment's, and curses, and lots of refurbish-…..'' he started grumbling, before becoming determined that he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of hearing his sentence end.

Whatever a muggle was, she wasn't too fond of being treat like an airhead, though it was useful, if annoying to know her magic plan was straight out of the game.

''Well then,'' she leaned in closer, pleased with her new plan, ''I'll cry, all dwarfs have to help a crying lady, it's in the rules, since snow white was written. Any kindly old dwarf has to follow them now, or else.''

Hoggle would have loved making one thing clear, if he had enough patience with the girl to humour her with a conversation, he was not a dwarf, nor a sprite, nor a grumpy old troll who needed to find himself a bridge to sit under.

He was a whateverhewas, and like most things, whateverhewas wasn't 'is business.

Still, though they were quite forced, drops of water were coming from her eyes, and she had a very sad looking sulk on her; and hadn't he always wanted, somehow, to be kindly, as well as, even maybe instead of, grumpy?

Besides, he was, given his worrisome nature, and the cumbersome nature that his master had attached to his life, more anxious than he'd like to say about what 'or else' was.

''Oh, come now, stop that, I can't be doin' with a bleedin' heart, can I, and,'' his voice was wavering to near pathetic levels of pandering the child, ''it wouldn't do neither of us no good to tell you anyway, even if,'' he was begging to mutter again, forgetting to keep it under his breath, ''I 'ope or else doesn't mean the bog of eternal stench….''

She inwardly jumped at her luck at finding someone who talked to himself so often, and added a few new tricks up her sleeve, as she began to tone down mock sobbing, that had really racked her chest when she started to let it become a real sob, for the people and places she'd miss if she dared to fail, into a light sniffling.

''Oh, now you're trying to comfort me, I just knew you were kindly; Snow White would be proud; and I can't believe you managed to guess you'd go in the bog if you didn't show it, oh thank you for your kindness.''

He'd heard this Snow mentioned twice now, something had to be up with the character.

''Well, Snow White got in trouble too, and she nearly cried rivers till she discovered some dwarfs, with enough kindness to help her. It was a test, you see, for who of them were good enough to be happy in her celebrations and share her friendship, and all the dwarfs who left her alone, and walked on to get where they wanted to be were punished with the bog.''

He was going to protest he was a whateverhewas, not a silly dwarf, but even how, some vague thing told him at least most of the story was real enough.

She thought that the Grimm brothers would appreciate her artistic license with that one, and a look of comprehension came to his face.

''Well, now you'll get to be my friend, won't you, and friends tell each other secrets – but first, I think we need to know each other's names; I'm Sarah, and I will stop Jareth, know I will – who exactly are you?''

''Hoggle, and, well,'' he strained, grasping at straws to do what Jareth, rather than Sarah had told him, Jareth could punish him, of course he could, but Sarah was willing to be his friend, ''if you wanted to be a friend, you would 'ave said hello first, wouldn't you.'' He stated, a fair enough point to make for something he searched blindly for.

She wondered why Jareth had chosen his name in particular to justify being a complete slob in the only swanky place she'd been to, but she had to be civil for it to work, no matter how annoyed she was becoming.

''Oh, umm, well, Hello then, sorry I didn't say it earlier; but with your help, this will be the bee's knees, won't it?''

He wondered whether bees actually did have knees for a few moments, before grudgingly muttering a hello back to her.

''Well, about the secrets..as for me, I always go to ritzy clubs when I'm not supposed to, and I don't even like the Dardanella…so could you tell me the one's I asked, just to help me?''

''You already know who I am, and once you get through the walls, you could see the castle whatever the labyrinth's feelin' like today; and his highness just likes bein' miserable where everyone else isn't, I suppose; even if he's too mischievous to be sullen in his great big castle, always singing…''

She only got one word of that.

Highness.

She had to pick a bet with the biggest cheese possible, didn't she?

**Author's Notes: Sarah's more manipulative, if not cruel, in this, ****and****a little feistier, as I think aging without the need to marry (it was declining through the 20's) would give her more freedom than canon, and basically because its more interesting, although hints of her being able to work thing to her advantage are there in the movie.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3 - Sands and sticks and stones of time.**

Jareth watched her over in her tactics of half deceit, amused she'd tried to falsely reason her way into a few tips and tricks, none of which, stupid girl, Hogwald (he'd told her his name before, in the wrong context admittedly, why was it such a hard name to remember?) could ever know of course.

He doubted he went in the labyrinth for his own leisure and he hadn't neglected to mentioned his grounds were ever changing, had he?

Still, the only other entertainment he could possibly get was to listen to his subjects earnestly debate whether sludge or mu, muck or gook were better; only to have the brief politics ended with them tackling each other.

He couldn't imagine why the scarce, and far from truth reports of him said he liked stealing babies and turning them into goblins – it was merely an obligation, like humans of various times were obliged to go to school or work, moan about their days, moan about other people's and be very happy they had the time for a lovely spot of cosy cynicism.

Not, of course, that he hadn't questioned it – he was far too intelligent to not brood once in a while – but he was stuck with it; and even if he wasn't, what on Earth would he do with the chaotic legions hat so loved bringing base dysfunction to his palace.

Dysfunction was delicious, but they had to be so crude about it.

He had chosen the sort of girl who would bring chaos in her wake, but the type of chaos that thank god didn't involve feathers, fur and things he had learnt never to ask about.

He made a mental note to douse Hogweed into the bog when he told her o the singing he often used, purely for therapy.

That was private.

Besides, the shrivelled up wart couldn't ever realize how funny he still found it to sing the bleakest, most risqué songs he could pluck from various times to subjects who were oblivious to the lyrics.

When the projections of his crystals faded, turning from visions back into generic glass to his palm, he wondered exactly what conditions he would set – after all, he had been to busy thinking idly to think properly.

He grimaced at the sea of squabbling goblins below his feet, shouting now, all subtle whispering far too normal, about some mutiny they planned to unleash on him, that would be stopped as soon as he raised his voice.

He didn't want one more of them to deal with.

He was duty bound; but the girl hadn't sworn on a sibling– she'd sworn on anything at all, but he would like to uphold some sense of tradition, and he had to admit he had a soft spot for discarded babes before they turned.

He'd try, when the crystals decided they'd like to work for him again, to find any weak spot of her life; anything she would champion till her dying breath, and then, he'd think of the consequences; for right and wrong action, for win and for loss.

He wasn't ashamed to admit he was a fluid thinker, always making up plans on the go.

At least, he looked at one of the smaller, more rotund Goblin's, caught up in another one's sock, pretending to suffocate, he thought at all.

….

From what she could see; there was no traditional life, spiky green plants and quaint flowers eschewed for writhing things, either wilted or blooming into anarchy, no birds cheeping their merry way or eating anything foul.

So why did she feel distinctly like she was being watched?

Paranoia.

It was protocol, more or less; for someone dumped into the sort of fantasy world she always wanted to be real, but who realised she could probably die there far more easily than in the pages of a children's book.

''Umm, Hoggle,''she tentatively woke him from a deeply concentrated look, no doubt fretting over something, ''Are there any animals here, you know, your average Joes?''

She groaned deeply, realising her average would certainly not align with his.

''Well, a few dogs ,'' them, she could handle, ''Fairies, the bitin' kind, Trolls, Whatyamajigs, Whoamibobs;a few Dodo hats, a Bandersnatch or somethin' once; that was a proper mess up…''He shivered.

Lewis Carrol's batty stories? She should have known.

She remembered it was meant to be 'frumious'; and she decided as wonderful as it would be to see something from a book's pages, lifted into life for the two seconds she had left to live, she really wouldn't want to meet one.

''I won't meet one, though, will I, with you to guide me – I mean, you didn't get hurt by it, and it was only once.'' She smiled, putting on her optimist, already weary of the façade of purer than pure martyrdom she'd have to don to be anything like a fairytale heroine.

''Hang on a minute,'' he turned towards her gruffly, ''You said to answer yer questions – I did. You ain't said nothing about me guidin' you. That's off limits, even if you are some snowy girl – and don't say nothing about me bein' bogged, because his highness will do that any way to me, just for talking to yer.''

''So, what's your beef, if you're going to be bogged either way? ''She huffed, throwing her arms in the air, ''I'd like not to be eaten walking through this labyrinth, you know, and you're my best bet.''

Truth be told, weaselling out of being bogged wasn't going to work very well for him, either way, and she obviously needed his expertise if she had any hope of going out safely – he wasn't vain often, not usually having reason to be, but despite the labyrinth's ever changing nature, he was proud to say he was a dab hand at sensing what mood all the bricks and twists were in, how to coax them into behaving more than they usually would, sniffin and spying out danger and jackpots – but he had never done it with a friend before.

That, of course, meant he had to do it with a friend, even if Jareth went to fry him.

''Yer not going to get eaten, too chewy lookin', nothing goes for anythin' scrawny 'ere.'' He dead panned, leaving her self-conscious about just how skinny he thought she was, seeing as curvaceous was all the rage, before wondering why she cared about his opinion on the matter.

''Hmm, well, I bet I'd taste just keen, actually. Still, I can't worry about hat with you helping, now; how do you get –''

Ah, it hadn't occurred to her, before seeing him push with all his little might, that entrance could be something as simple as a door.

''It's feelin calm today, with some breezy mischief in its corners,''Hoggle gave his verdict, sniffing at the air, ''alright, alright, _she's_ feelin,'' he muttered, ''no Banderwhatsit's today; but prob'ly a Dodo hat or two.''

Sarah had to laugh at the picture; his face, wrinkled up into a ball of regret, uneasy excitement and knowledge all at once, sniffling at random bricks like a scholar at Egyptian texts.

She wondered, briefly, if Jareth would send her help, but only _bonkers_ help, just to have a laugh at her expense.

''Don't laugh,'' he grumbled, ''it's very offputtin', and she won't like you. Usually only his highness drops people in, but if she's got a hump against you a puddle can turn into a great big bog. Don't give 'er an hump. Blimey,'' he said, brown weathered face turning paler than ghosts, ''she's on a change today, she'll have got there when you've finished; and that'll muck up matters. For us an 'im both. We'd be dead if he'd ever bother checkin' times.''

The change, whatever it was, sounded as far from good as she could get, which was floating ever father without so much as a by your leave.

''Okay,'' she said, trying to concentrate on something that made her feel less queasy, ''left or right?''

Noticing he was still concentrated on a bit of moss, that she grimaced at when she thought he may have been licking it, she made a move herself, a right turn, straight on and running at a big, bland grey wall, that looked too dull to belong somewhere that should be mysterious.

She looked for anything to mark her steps, like in the Greek Labyrinth, or with Hansel and Gretel; but dresses didn't have pockets, and there was nothing there, apart from a few small but smelly oozing purple flowers embedded into the wall she there on the ground and crushed with her foot.

They went as swiftly as she marked them though, and she heard something insult her oddly, calling her a 'salmon headed snotgut, and no respect for a person's property!'

She looked for Hoggle, searching zealously for the back of his head, hoping the labyrinth would do her the courtesy of being a few steps ahead at least.

When the only thing that looked remotely like it was a big glob of another weird shrubbery, she did something decidedly anti-heroine, and slumped her back to the wall, sulking for a good few seconds, her feet already had the promises of blisters, and she'd been stupid enough to forget the ultimate rule for all fantasies – wander off, and you could just as well curtsy to your inevitable grizzly demise.

She noticed something vaguely slippery go over her hand, waving her hands around to get it off in case it was a leach made even nastier by her setting, before it talked to her.

''Oi, that's not a kind thing to do, is it, Miss lout? An' to think I was going to invite you for a spot of tea.'' It sounded quite haughty for a leach.

''Oh, uh, sorry, Miss…it's just, I don't know where to go here, let alone how to talk to people…I'm, sorry if I offended you, you seem like a blue serge, going to offer me tea and all.'' As surreal as it was calling a fluffy blue worm a real sweetheart, she did look quite endearing especially with the snazzy red scarf of hers, and if she could find any shortcuts or tips; or even the dirt she'd be ashamed she'd want to dig on Jareth, well that'd be a bonus.

Plus, she had no concept of how time worked in such a place; and she had a very bad feeling about it whatever the case, and she hadn't drunk or eaten anything for what could just as easily be hours as much as minutes, depending on how long hours were.

She suddenly felt queasy, wondering if there was any way thirteen hours in labyrinth time could be a meagre two or three in the time she knew.

''Well,'' The worm said, turning its head flippantly, ''I suppose it was good of you to apologise, and though I 'aven't a monkeys what that serge of yours is I suppose that's good too. Then, I suppose you're still alright for a spot of tea an' natter.''

Logistics hit her.

She couldn't see the worm's home, and wherever it was, how was she meant to fit in it?

Fiction hit her.

Alice had managed to shrink perfectly easily, and that was the sort of thing she was dealing with – but did she eat a cake, or drink a drink for that one – she could never remember.

''Thank you, that's berries, but uh, where will we have it, and umm, how exactly am I meant to fit?'' She bit her lip as she looked idly around for unusual cakes or bottles, knowing full well they wouldn't be there.

''Easy peasy,''The worm affirmed, ''just look at the wall I'm on 'ere – if stand where the wall looks like it's got one behind it, and think yourself my size. If you can think, after all, you summoned his nibs, didn't you - just think ye'self smaller, smell an' hear smaller. Of course, grinding pebbles in your mouth with your tongue is on a full moon useful for silly humans like yourself…''

She politely declined, trying out the easy option; the hardest thing trying to find a piece of the wall that looked like it backed another, concentrating on it so hard all of it looked blurry enough to be the special patch.

Eventually she settled on the one that was the most likely to give her a migraine, and nearly laughed at how easy the instructions were, till she tried to make the concept of 'small' tangible – she imagined cheese for a mouse, feeling no decrease in size, and the sound of rustling leaves, amped up so it sounded like thunder, and still her size was an average five foot something or other.

Small was a word with ambiguous meaning, and somehow, the sound of Karen preaching to her father about how she was so immoral, how they should have sent her to a catholic school to have the proper sort of upbringing and be viciously strict, how everything else seemed to zone out and such an ordinary voice became a crescendo; and how proud a gap toothed six year old was that, messing up a stifling dress in the process, she'd managed to make a 'doll' from twigs and cloth, that stank of glue and dirt, and how Karen rightly refused her request to carry it around at all times.

That did nothing either, for a while.

Then, it felt like a missing chunk of something was clawing at her feet and rose through her body from her spine, swelling up dizziness in her eyes and fingers, every panicked squeal or utterance of disbelief she tried to utter hanging in the air for minutes before it fell back into her mouth.

She was quite smug about it working so well.

''Oh deary,''muttered her companion, ''it's gone a tad wrong, 'asn't it – you weren't at the right angle, ducky – now you're stuck all human shaped when you ought to be just as blue as I am, poor thing. If me' husband were here, he'd think you were a wingless fairy and snap you in 'alf.''

She muttered what a shame it was, to humour her; thankful she hadn't had a perfect estimate.

Her home was definitely cosy, if there was a word to describe it; green and dark, with a warm little fire adding in lovely amber light, and moss providing comfortable seats, with plants as decoration, and cups with something the colour of the moss, that smelt as nice as warm melted chocolate.

''So,'' she started small talk awkwardly, after grabbing a cup, sitting down and noticing the liquid had something floating in it, ''what do you know about Jareth?''

''Jareth ,''she scoffed, ''that's 'is I'm feeling human like name. He's got no jurisdiction 'ere, he don't, and Goblin King's the name he gets called by, along with other ones not so near to pleasant.''

''And, this labyrinth – how does it change, exactly?'' She asked, pretending to take a sip when she was met with a suspicious look.

''Very, very long story, girl. Stories. Each of them the length of your usual arm and a sideways snake. With short versions. But borin' ones. It depends what mood she's in. To you 'champions' my 'ouse is always my house to me, but nothing else is ever certain; and if you came here yesterday my house could be anything or where. Add in weather, if she even 'as one of you lot parading around her and what she's been planning without us knowin' and there's o short way to tell you. If you're a champion, you need a short way. Steer clear of the cleaner's and you'll be fine, you've got your 'ead screwed on, talking to me, most don't even bother, with how rude they are. I haven't seen one bother since twothousandandthirtyseven.''

She had no idea what to make of that number, or the fact that it was, as part of her had feared, stupid to even ask for tiddly answers, when it was a world, with its own myths and history, and just as difficult to explain as her old world, to a stranger.

Time did seem to go from a to b to z to, though, if she knew anything about the place she'd landed in, and it was the one thing she had quite little of.

She knew, sighing at her curiosity, bound some day to kill the proverbial cat, she'd go looking for story time anyway.

**Notes: Since the last constructively negative guest review, feel free to tell me about any ****continuity****or spelling errors, since I've been revising past ones anyway and would be happy to continue to do so. I've also got a bigger, better plan for the story, that means it will not follow the structure of the original film but time and idea flipped like it has done; but the changes will fit into the existing story and won't come from nowhere. Thanks for my new followers, surprisingly many readers and reviewer(s) are in order as well :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4 - dizzying ****spectacles**

All things of the labyrinth, from the smallest burrowing creatures, shaking off their fur in near constant anxiety; to the largest beast a runner learnt to dread had their theories, gleefully absurd or disturbingly close; about the world they lived in.

There was no god to tack any of these theories onto; gods seeming rather more mundane than the occasional dragon they found themselves sharing a home with; and because organised religion really would be a vicious oxymoron in a world that prided itself on chaos.

Theories on Jareth, however, almost always began and ended with 'he's a right arse', or the like.

They hardly had history to rely on either, or art; since most inhabitants had no idea of the joys opposable thumbs could ring; and art, luxurious as it was whenever he chose to make it, came only in drips and drabs; always reeking of egotism, from their king.

A killing curiosity to find out their origins was there a while, of course; but faded out after the changing and morphing of their home became an odd routine; and anyone looking for a myth would be stopped dead in their tracks.

Runners; champions and losers alike, were different.

They created myths.

To those funny old humans; life as it was known was worthy of legends; transported, in some of the amoebic years into their culture, in the more streamlined, self – conscious times forgotten about rather purposefully; a silly dream, or lapse of judgement at a bottle's edge, if not a rather awful fever.

As a young little wriggler, even the worm had wondered if she had a place in some country of theirs, as a rather ineffective demon or surplus deity.

The runners themselves were little legends in their world, when they could remember to remember them, but all the specifics had been blurred and muted; until they only knew there were winners and losers.

Losers, yes, but winners too.

Sarah seemed the type to win.

She was asking enough questions about how to do it at any rate; not as very good at subtlety as she'd like to think she was.

''Well; there must have been a few winners before, right; so, how'd they do it – is Jareth a god or something, can he die? Do I,'' she squirmed, facial expression gurning, ''have to kill him? What's he king of anyway – he has this labyrinth, but does he have anything else?''

All of the questions came out in a rush, breath barely stopped for, crumbs of a cake the stubborn worm had insisted she eat flying very unladylike from her mouth.

''That's a lot of questions from you, blimey – an' how d'you think I'll be able to answer 'em all; I'm not a history book ; an' we don't have 'em anyway 'ere.''

''Well; you must remember things yourself; and well, people must talk about it it – oh, there must be some things you can tell me, there just must.''

''I can,'' she smiled, lifting her little head up haughtily, ''you won't have to kill him, because whether he's a god or not, that's impossible; and you look to dainty to do it, anyways. He lords over us all, or so he thinks he does, the silly bugger, but he calls himself the goblin king mainly. Makes 'im more menacing, he thinks it does; as if his warty 'eadless army's anything to worry about; they'd rather fling muck at you than do anythin' intimidating; and they aren't welcome 'ere.''

That said nothing about their history; which they were obliged to have; so she asked, again , rather more shrill and loudly, in case she hadn't understood at all, the unanswered questions, and a general huff of ''well, don't you know anything about your heritage at all?'' accompanied by flying hands and a sigh far too crotchety for a young woman.

''We do 'ave it - we just can't find it – do I 'ave thumbs? Even if I had 'em, were d' you think I'd learn all the writing from; the reading? Our history's sittin' on the lap of some grim friend of his royal pain. We haven't got the time to chatter on about it anyways, and most of our neighbour's don't 'ave a head to their names or would much rather eat us. I can remember things, but most loaf'ead's can't; and not anything you'd find too exciting, unless you're interested in last night's tea. ''

She was interested in getting out and besting the king, now she'd heard the whole venture was a useless exercise, and try to push her overwhelming curiosity away so she didn't sabotage herself; knowing full well if she concentrated her full interest in lost histories, he'd have won by trapping her there.

''Right. Right; I'm sorry,'' she dragged on wearily, wiping her hand to her brow and frowning, ''I have to go; so no more baloney from me; I'll just have to do that thing you said in reverse, huh? Bye anyways.''

''No, no, no; it ain't that easy poppet, or Id invite you out me'self; the easy peasy bit's getting in, but getting out's another matter altogether, it takes all those weeds to fill you up with poison, and then you'd have to demolish me lovely little home from the inside, or else yer breathin' would go sideways – and when she's on a verge, the labyrinth is mighty cross with everyone. Don't go, pet, fer' yer' own sake.''

She could not stay in a damp house of patchworked moss, however pleasant the company was; she could not risk anything she had put on the line by staying in like a good little petal, there, if she had got in she would get out; and that was final.

''Well,'' she tried to sound as bright as she could muster, ''give me the weeds then; I have to get out, I just have to.''

Realising that the only response she'd get from her host was tutting and a turn of her head; she looked for anything like awed herself, pulling clumps of sludge like seaweed there, and something that was some morbid cousin of a nettle there; throwing them in the last dregs of some tea as if that would help it taste better.

She could smell the horrendous, briny smell from a mile off, and withheld her gaging for as long as she could, downing the disgusting mixture in one gulp, which assured her that, just like the worm, said, it would make some sort of poison.

''I'm sorry, Miss, I really am; you've been very kind, and I don't want to break your home at all, but as soon as I've championed, I'll order the king to fix it, with his magic; like I guess he'd have.''

The scowl on the little worm's face showed just how likely she thought that was, but at least she didn't dismiss, like she had the other questions, that he even had magic.

Perhaps it was a hallucinogen instead; all her head clouded in mist, every thought she thought she'd had flying away from her in a game of chase, in absurd, irritating slow motion.

Her head felt like one big blood clot; everything slow and laboured, before hot fire tickled various places in it; turning lethargy into forced, leaping energy; her head crawling with metaphorical ants as her vision became blurred.

She saw, when she looked down, her legs and arms and chest expanding, and the tight breathing of the latter; as the high the interior walls turned from tiny too oppressive, and as she expanded towards the brick itself, gasps of breath were caught in her breath; arms flailing wildly, clawing at any brick she could find.

The only good thing about her height was the strength that came with it, each time the end of a nail brushed with stone, that part chipped and crumbled onto the worm's lovely, surprisingly silken lichen carpet.

The worm herself was far out of her vision, and despite being a slow creature, must have got away if there were any sense in her, leaving her indignation trailing behind.

She tried, desperately to punch the bricks out of place, but only few faltered, and when she beat on them, there were large chunks of brick left, including the ones that were trapping her head, she tried swatting at the top bricks, a few of them giving way instantaneously, the gaps that were there making breathing marginally easier, as her growth spurt refused to stop.

Her feet were catching now, the things she had forgotten, and she had to flail bestially to hit bricks from both ends; dust and scraping little bits of rubble left, poised to cut her head as she went upwards, with no other choice.

She pushed on the bits of wall by her side, hauling herself up, trying to be gentle, before her feet had broken ankles, a few bits of chalky brick scraping at the side of her neck, before she finally could stand, at her usual height, and lift her leg over the side, freeing her.

She hoped she'd be able to live up to her promise; the house looked like a war zone how she'd left it.

Whooping cheerfully that she was out; she realised her stabbing pain, coursing around her legs and arms, and heightened in her neck, where bruises and scratches, some bleeding valiantly on, had decided to interrupt her skin.

She dearly wished two things: one, that she had gone to her dance, as odd as it would seem forb the spectators, in a sweater and ten layers of stockings, so's to come off better, and two, that she hadn't abandoned the odd little creature, Hoggle, quite so easily.

Despite being quite dumbfounded, and very annoyed at some, if not all of the specifics, she did not wish she had never made whatever vague deal she had; it was an adventure, at least, and she'd be very proud of ending it triumphantly, as convention dictated.

She thought, in tune with her faux persona, she'd be quite repentant when she saw Hoggle; considering he'd looked afraid enough when she asked him for his help to start with that he had to be putting something important on the line for her.

''You really should have thought of the poor thing's feelings before abandoning him; retrospect and introspect aren't going to change what you do and how you do; although I'll serve you nice dollops of both. They say I'm getting loony, as you'd call it; and countless others after; that I always get loony now – but I have someone to be loony with, so I'm not ever so ever so alone, am I?'' A voice floated into her head; like another level of the throbbings she'd had from the weeds she spat on.

All of her body, rising from her particularly artic feet, was beginning to go colder, though she felt rather more like glass than an icicle.

She could hear perfectly well, even too perfectly perhaps, every word chiming crystal clear, although her vision wasn't merely blurred, like when she clawed herself from the wall, but like eyes closed just before the point of sleep; dark, with flecks of light dancing over.

''We're all mad here, no need to worry yourself, it would be selfish to think you were the weirdest, not when there are disembodied hands about; and things with chatting hats sewn into life; and fur and scales and stunted wings. '' It was disturbing that the words lacked inflection, that neither contempt or a vocal wink could be heard, to crystalline for life.

She could feel the girl crawl in her, frantic as the runners always were; a different sort of crawl from the meandering of her children, from the slow waltz of arrogance her captor so loved.

King, not captor.

Certainly the same thing.

''It's a shame really – I like your time; fizzy and dizzying and so splendid it just can't bear to see its faults; would never think it would drop those it embraced yet again into the gutter, for years and years on end – damning wealth and dirt poor – I hope I never go there. I think I'm having a renaissance – though; I don't know which at all…''

She'd stopped wriggling now, too scared that a limb may be out of placed, may hit onto something; she couldn't hear the buzz. It really was a forgone conclusion, the ending that she'd come to; but no point in giving it away, especially when she would be so perfectly pissy about it…

''Maybe you'd like to feel it – my history or yours, whichever you might like. I doubt you'd like either. Spoilt. Perfect for your ending, thus.''

Convulsions rippled through her; the smell of ash and charcoal roaring to her nostrils, screams and chants and sobs wracked within her ears, her skin feeling evry type of burning, like she'd like to peel it off, just in that moment; bile rising from her throat at a danger she couldn't face, and the sound of her own breath was just as bad, highlighting the chaos around it.

Then , that mercifully ebbed away, Sarah too alert to be relieved, certain above all certainties that something else was to come.

She felt split apart, each inch of innards torn in a different direction, as some wriggly feeling wormed its way around her spleen; fire dancing in her hands and her black dimmed eyes, still with teasing drops of light, felt like they were gouged.

She bit onto each breath, willing herself not to scream, not to be defiled by something she could only hear, something that should defy reality; she was glad, though, that the urge of stripping skin was not a part, and that no smell at all, let alone that of ash and flames, was around her.

''Ah; I could have shown some more history, lots of it; but that didn't go so well. I think I may have stretched you. Oh, I can be overbearing – not that I would give you comfort...hopefully my next lunacy will proplerly befit the normal me.'' It was the first time the voice had any movement; and it sounded like a smile, full of cheek and gumption.

''Now; I suppose, silly thing; I best make it easier for you since you're making it so very hard for yourself. Always wondered if you were hollow, never had the chance to check – so before I bid adieu, I might… French – that's always lovely – no, still English; lucky for you, my Cantonese setting would baffle your little brain – check. I love tangents, I won't apologise for that one.''

Just as Sarah was beginning to think the hope that she'd be left alone wasn't utterly false; she felt a wisp of air tie around her thankfully non broken ankles; and her stomach felt like a barrel being rolled.

She was upside down, wasn't she, and that of all things emitted a squeal.

Thankfully, she was dropped rather quickly, and with an 'Adiue' that should by all accounts have been full with jaunty villainy, she could see her face was going to land smack bang in to grass; which, all things considered, wasn't the worst surface.

She was just glad; after whatever fiasco she'd had, that she could even see; and beamed when she realised her sight was just as average as usual.

Plus she could see her wizened guide keeping his eyes peeled for her, huffing and puffing with anxiety as he looked even under rocks for her, which, all things considered, should have been not even half a surprise with what's she'd had.

He really didn't seem to notice that she'd flopped inelegantly onto grass; making an ungainly 'ugh' noise as she did so.

How she'd love to place that fat cat king into her world; she might falter, no matter how many fairy tales interested her, in his world'; but judging from how he was far too cool to even think of dancing, he'd have to beat it when she beat him hands down; when even a kid like her brother could.

''Hey, Hoggle; I'm sorry I was such a dumb Dora, going off without you; but am I glad to see you. Is the labyrinth especially catty today, or is she usually this cruel?''

''All my inspectin', was to help you not do anythin' stupid; but you just wan' ta' do stupid things, don't you? It's agitated's, what it is, always gets like that on a change day. Now; promise me you won't run off like that?'' She nodded dutifully; not wishing a repeat performance.

''Why'd you talk like that anyway, with those words of yours? It's odd, though, that you didn't know the man himself' was king, if ye knew enough about him to do something like this.''

So, apparently even the people who didn't know much, the outsiders, generally at least knew about Jareth.

''I didn't know him; at all, never read about him, never heard any stories -0 sure, there's a few goblin king's maybe, but heck, they're usually goblins, not some keen Sheik. If I knew about him, I might'a come here sooner; and thought out a real plan too.''

She hoped he thought her unusual words were an insult, or she may just have embarrassed herself.

''What'd I say about those words of yours, I just don't understand 'em.''

Boy, was she glad of that.

...

There was still a wealth of things unknown, and now; she would snarl, were it possible; her lips were sewn as tight as ever; and her whole conjuring would be spoke of as nothing more than poisoned fancy, if the girl would ever talk about it at all.

Carefully, she slid in misplaced silver, to slivers of glass; to the orbs he'd play with whenever he was bored, or after his tantrums, like a child; and her whisper, though seldom heard, would cause collision.

How clever was she?


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 4.5 **

**Author's note:This is a .5 ****because ****it's very short; but that's because I haven't written anything because of sixth form, so this is a little in betwteener to establish the nest chapter and to remind you I'm not dead until the proper one, which I shall have done by friday if it kills me. A thank you is in order too, to all my followers and favouritors, old and new - and I'd both love and really rather need your feedback.**

Music drowned out his ears; bass and beats swallowing up the moments of his thoughts, his quiet, fixed sneer turning more neutral – the sound took over everything.

'This is a lifetime, this is not he first; consider it a blessing my darlings, that you are so cursed, ' a voice droned on; objectively without much skill; but with something underneath that stirred up old and half dead things back from their well-worn graves.

Her vibrato, though clunky is stirring; and he notices idly while his ears are taken in by it, that the room is all ablaze with half captured conversations, fluttering about on broken wings; and the realisation is far too sudden for him not to doubt his faculties, when his lungs and eyes finally get affect of the rising smoke, grey bile that it is.

This is not respectable.

Good; it is safety then, no new requirements.

He trips on a long finger of the stuff, chocking on some second hand ash as someone or another throws their drink onto another, and his eyes cannot rebel, burdened as they are to roll.

The labyrinth, he grimaces must have changed herself again – these unwanted visions, never too far away from basic stereotype – for she had a far simpler imagination than she'd ever think of herself, only ever troubled him as a late warning, that his world was to go pear shaped.

He had to snigger.

He'd seen it like an orange, a fig; a pineapple.

Pears were nothing to be afraid of.

'pairs frighten' you, the smoke curled itself to speak, and again, he dignified this speech only with a snigger – when she talked, she never listened, stupid, stupid thing; always holding out belief that he woud not dispown her.

He fled already; to clubs, to bars, to darkened alleyways where his not so parlour tricks would be night time rambles common or garden as traffic, and as dull; but he was bound not to leave it for a the duration of a day, and every hour he was out was another he'd have to make up for inside.

She was fickle with her time, so he matched her.

Babes could tumble like rain into his hands and castle, or he could spot a lovely hay bale rolling its merry way around, and somehow, whenever they were; time found its excuses for him to wear a paper crown.

All the mess to clean; when in a strop she loved to litter…

The people, all as plastic as his monarchy, disappeared, leaving smoke and a bar with stools; his ears hurting from the absence of the loud alto.

He was missing whatever point she was trying, in her abstract way to make.

Good.

He was surrounded by children, theoretically; so he was allowed to throw his arms in tantrum; at time being sapped from him achingly, however odd it looked on a man in regal clothes; from casual, done his special way, to a dark cape thrown onto a form fitting suit; black as was required.

The glare was upped; red and yellow checkered became a vicious orange, burning his eyes enough to make his ski tingle in response.

''Times, they are a changing,'' the voice droned out; obviously some hint to what he already knew – labyrinth, in her infinite wisdom; had chosen to play with time again, and there was almost certainly a metaphor in her decade.

''Very subtle.'' He drawled, pretending to be cool whilst calm was an impossibility; each pore sweating with anxiety; his features restrained into a confident snarl.

''Well,'' the music snapped; orchestration getting louder and more pitchy, ''they are, and there's nothing you can do about it. ''

Of course, a king with no real reign – he hadn't had power in an age; had he, really?

She'd have to dearly liked to add and no wandering off; please keep an eye on that girl, because I do have prospects for her, and I am the real ruler here, thank you very much; I am the only one of us respected; but she'd changed around Bob Dylan far too much already; and he was one of the few singers, along with Bowie, Beethoven and Tenayan 12 she'd bothered to recall over her assortment of years .

''I do actually have to rule, you realize – it's all very well to send me here occasionally; but where will all my subjects go; who will the children go to when the goblin king is gone?'' He delivered the line theatrically, as if she could ever care about what he said, least of all how he said it; and both of them realized it was a poor little excuse -the chances they were in a boom year were very, very slim.

The scene began to have a new background weaved – a picture of that girl who was becoming far too easy to forget about, in the midst of all madness talking to that little weasel man in his employ; who was, no doubt, betraying him and helping her.

She seemed a more blurry figure, though, doubtless another symbol of something or another; blue around the edges, purple, though opaque, in the middle, silver around her fingers and turquoise by her lips.

Analysing things was such a chore – why on Earth couldn't his ridiculous master sing everything out for him; she pretended to like puzzles, certainly, but after an hour she was always sulking at how very long they took to solve, manifesting itself in some short storm or another; before she spelled out the clues to all involved.

Ignoring her games was the best way to play them.

That girl, however, refused to be ignored; even when ignoring her was the only sensible thing to do - she was hardly special- she would be one in a pile of losers; it was only the time since the last that would rouse any suspicion or affection for her by his subjects, but how she acted - her passion, her indignation, her manipulation, in certain moments - nothing, he was sad to note, truly special either - men and women and children broke down, and men and women and children fought; and all of them were in his hall of triumphs, with their own personal failures.

But labyrinth seemed to fixated by this not quite ordinary, but very close to, thing.

He supposed, though this supposing was accompanied by a sigh great though inaudible; the best course of action was to be fixated too.

If she knew she'd already won the game, just by getting him, though tentatively, to play it, labyrinth would have conjured a suite of an orchestra, in mad melody at her intelligence.

He wondered how much intelligence the subject of his fixed fixation was going to have; because he knew exactly how much she'd _need_.


End file.
